The Last Sunday (28 page)

“Digitalis, also known as digitalin, is typically prescribed to patients suffering from congestive heart failure. It has been determined that a lethal dose was placed in her glass, which led to a fatal increase in her heart rate. Digitalis is derived from the common garden plant known as fox . . .”

Hattie Williams turned off the television in her living room. The house was now quiet. The only sounds were the
tick, tick, tick
from a clock that sat proudly over the fireplace, in the center of the mantelpiece.

Hattie had undressed and gone straight to bed after being driven home from the party. It was the first night in months that her sleep was not interrupted by the haunting dreams. There were no visions and no visitors from the other side. She slept deeply and woke to the sound of a sparrow singing just outside her bedroom window. Somehow the world seemed more peaceful than the day before. The coffee that morning was more satisfying than usual, the sun seemed brighter through her windows, and her spirit was at peace.

The first words she spoke when she woke that morning was, “Lord, forgive me for not listening to what you were trying to tell me all this time.”

At 11:00 that morning, she cleaned and prepared the collard leaves she had picked from her garden on Saturday. Just as she had predicted, there was plenty of time to cook them, because the glistening cathedral in the center of downtown Los Angeles was locked tight.

This was the first Sunday she had not gone to church in years. The last time she had missed a Sunday morning service was ten years earlier, on the day after her husband died.

That afternoon Hattie picked up her purse from the couch in the living room and walked into the kitchen. The smell of collard greens filled the house, even though she had already eaten an early dinner and the leftovers were neatly tucked away in the refrigerator. Hattie sat her purse on the counter next to the sink and slowly removed the contents.

A crumpled wad of clean Kleenex was first, followed by her wallet, a powder compact, three peppermint candies wrapped in cellophane, and a small tube of her favorite lavender-scented hand lotion. The last thing she removed was another Kleenex, this one neatly folded. She carefully unfolded the fragile white paper and held it over the side of the sink that contained the garbage disposal. When she turned the Kleenex upside down, two green stems, each less than half an inch long, fell into the sink. The paper was still slightly damp from the liquid that had oozed from the stems.

Hattie used the Kleenex to scoot the stems down the drain. She stuffed the Kleenex down behind them, turned on the water, and pressed the garbage disposal switch on the wall just above the sink. Hattie washed her hands under the warm running water.
Lord, I'm sorry I waited so long,
she thought as she applied an extra squirt of dish washing liquid to her palm.
Hezekiah might still be alive if I had listened to you sooner.

As she dried her hands, she heard the chimes of her doorbell. “Lord, who could that be?” she said as she made her way to the front door. “Hold on,” she called out. “I'll be right there.”

When she opened the door, she saw Gideon's silhouette through the metal screen door.

“Hello, Mrs. Williams. It's Gideon Truman. I didn't get a chance to speak to you last night. I wanted to make sure you were all right. May I come in?”

“Of course, baby,” she said. “That is very sweet of you. Please come in. Would you like something to drink? I made a fresh pitcher of lemonade for my dinner. Are you hungry? I could warm something up for you. There's plenty greens left. I always make enough just in case someone drops by unexpectedly.”

“That is very kind. But no thank you, Mrs. Williams. I've already eaten. Have you been listening to the news? The police are saying Samantha was poisoned with digitalis.” Gideon watched her face closely for the slightest reaction, but there was none.

“Yes, I heard that,” Hattie said as she made her way slowly down into her favorite chair. “Sit down, baby.”

“Thank you,” he said, sitting on the couch directly in front of her. “I can't stay long, but as I said, I wanted to check on you. This is all so tragic.”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed.

“It's unbelievable that they were both killed only months apart and in such similar ways.”

“How do you mean?” Hattie asked.

“Well, you know. Hezekiah was killed in front of the entire congregation, and then Samantha was killed in front of all her guests.”

“I never thought of it in those terms.”

“If it weren't so sad, it would be almost . . . poetic,” he said, studying her face. “I mean, it's as if it were orchestrated by some higher power.”

“Everything in this world is orchestrated by a higher power, baby,” she replied. “Even death.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Are you sure I can't get you some of those greens? I picked them fresh yesterday.”

“No thank you, ma'am. Mrs. Williams, do you know where digitalis comes from?”

“No, baby, I don't.”

“From foxgloves. Don't you have a foxglove plant in your garden?” he asked coyly. “I remember you showed it to me the last time I was here.”

“That's right, Gideon,” she replied, looking him directly in the eye. “Is there something you want to ask me? If there is, you should go on and get it off your chest before you explode.”

“Well, as a m-matter of f-fact, there is,” he stuttered. “I don't know how to say this, but . . .”

“The only way to say it is to say it,” she said boldly.

“All right. Mrs. Williams. Did you poison Samantha Cleaveland?”

Hattie flashed the gentle smile of grandmothers throughout the ages. “Now, why would I do something like that?”

“I've been wondering the same thing ever since I heard the cause of death. I didn't make the connection at first. But I did a little research on the Internet, and then it hit me. The flowers in your garden contain one of the deadliest poisons in the world and have been used for centuries to commit . . . murder.”

“I know that, honey. I told you they were poison, but you still haven't said why you would think I killed Samantha.”

“Ma'am, I also remembered how personally you took Hezekiah's death. Almost as if you blamed yourself. Like there was something you could have done to prevent it.”

As he spoke, a tear rolled down Hattie's cheek.

“You always knew she killed him. As a matter of fact, I suspect you knew it even before she did it. Am I correct?”

“Yes, I knew it,” she said, lifting a handkerchief to her mouth. “I should have warned him, but I didn't. He would still be alive if I had listened to what God had been trying to tell me.”

“I saw Samantha put her drink down next to you just before she invited everyone into the foyer.”

“She was the devil,” Hattie said gently, sobbing into the handkerchief. “If I hadn't done it, a troubled woman would have done it and ruined her and her baby's life. I couldn't let that happen.”

“What woman?” he asked gently. “What bab—”

Before he finished the question, the picture of the little girl sitting on the mantel in Scarlett's living room flashed in his head.

“You did it for his child.”

“Yes,” Hattie said resolutely. “I couldn't protect him, but it wasn't too late to protect his daughter. Her mother was going to do something that would ruin their lives. I couldn't let her do that.”

The two sat in silence. Hattie stared out the window as the summer sun slowly set. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece chimed 8:00 p.m.

Gideon finally stood and walked over to Hattie. He kneeled down beside her and took her hand in his.

“Mother Williams,” he said softly. “Let's never speak of this again. I'm going to go out back now and dig up those flowers. I'll destroy them for you.”

Hattie looked into his eyes. Another tear rolled down her cheek.

“Thank you, baby,” she said, gently squeezing his hand. “You do that. I won't be needing them anymore.”

Gideon stood and began to walk toward the back door.

“Gideon,” Hattie called out to him.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Take care of Danny and Jasmine,” she said. “They need you.”

“Yes, ma'am. I will.”

The joy in the Sunday morning church service at New Testament Cathedral was palpable. Brass instruments, drums, violins, guitars, and pianos caused the sanctuary to pulsate with rhythmic music. The two twenty-five-foot-high JumboTron screens alternated rapidly between various sweeping images of the twenty-five-thousand-member congregation standing, clapping, and singing in the glass cathedral.

Four months had passed since the death of Pastor Samantha Cleaveland. On cue, the pace of the music gradually shifted to a more melodic and reverent tone. A soprano sang a hypnotic tune, and the audience obediently chimed in. A billowing hum from the crowd rolled from the front of the church to the top row and filled the room as congregants softly sang in unison and looked upward to heaven.

The camera followed Percy Pryce from the front row as he walked up the steps to the center of the stage. To his left and right at the pulpit were the waterfalls that poured ribbons of water into the pools below. Then a booming disembodied voice filled the sanctuary and announced to the congregation, “Ladies and gentlemen, Brothers and Sisters, please stand with me and welcome our pastor, Reverend Percy Pryce, and his lovely wife, First Lady Cynthia Pryce!”

Cynthia stood on the front row and turned to wave to the crowd as they rose to their feet and erupted into thunderous applause.

Scarlett sat quietly on the forth row and straightened Natalie's crinoline dress as Percy approached the podium. Gideon, Jasmine, and Danny remained seated on the third row, directly behind Hattie Williams. Hattie sat on the second row with her cane resting on her knee and the patent leather purse at her feet. She closed her eyes and prayed silently,
Lord, bless New Testament Cathedral this Sunday morning.

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The Last Sunday Copyright © 2013 Terry E. Hill

 

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ISBN: 978-1-6016-2395-9

 

 

 

 

 

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